I challenged Uba and other boys in my group to best me in archery. I always lost before I was given Rabbit-In-A-Tree. Afterwards, I beat Uba, most of the boys in my group and many of the older ones. If I did not mention Uba’s name, Tashiko and I celebrated my victories and honour to my family.
I began to beg for a horse, but months passed before Akio and Master Isamu finally gave in. My two samurai argued about how to teach me to ride. Finally, Akio tied me to an old mare. She bore no resemblance to the black demon the priest had ridden the day I had come to the shōen.
After only one season, I could stay on the horse for myself. What days they were – to ride high up and see the ground like a bird. From time to time, I wished I could fly to my real home.
Late in my second summer at the shōen, I sat on my own lacquered wooden saddle, with mother-of-pearl in the shapes of trees and rabbits, another gift from Akio and Master Isamu. I handled horses mostly without using my hands, guiding them with my legs.
I rode all over the shōen, not only around the fields but also around the lake and the ponds and through small streams – too fast for summer mosquitoes. I was careful to avoid the buckwheat fields. Proprietor Chiba loved buckwheat noodles so he would take the switch to anyone who spoiled the buckwheat. Now I thought seldom of escape.
Akio allowed us to hold a tachi, a real sword: grasping the handle, its brown bumpy ray-skin and braided leather strips. My finger traced the tsuba, the iron sword guard with its Taira Clan closed-butterfly design. I squinted at the shining steel blade, blinding me in the brilliant summer sky.
The tachi reminded me of farm tools I had used with Father and my brothers, familiar, comfortable. That brought on homesickness, which pierced me to my spine, like an arrow, grabbed at my throat and caused my chin to quiver. I turned away from the boys. One teasing word might have caused me to spill tears where I could be seen. I would not dishonour myself like that. Uba came after me, but I ran away.
Months after I had begun the bokken training a boy a bit heavier than me lay flat on the ground. I had my first victory! I clutched my weapon above my head, breathing hard, smiling, successful.
‘Kozaishō! I am next.’ I looked up at Uba, who was now taller than me: he had grown a quarter of a shaku in the last two months. The boy who had lost to me called everyone around us to watch. Uba took me in three strokes. Only three! On the ground, I heard laughing and whistling.
I stood up, my left hand clenched into a fist, jaw clamped, and scowled at Uba. I heard Akio ask if I wanted some water. I growled at him. He gathered the hair at the top of my head in one fist and led me off the field to the water jars. I drank and listened. ‘I have something to teach you when the others have finished. You can use your size to an advantage.’
‘How can my size be an advantage?’ Akio had made himself absurd in my eyes. He knew I hated people to laugh at me. I wanted to return and destroy Uba.
‘First you must control your emotions, if you are to be a samurai.’
I had become angry with someone else or myself – again. I took several deep breaths and let them out slowly, as he had taught me. ‘Yes, honourable Teacher.’
‘Use the energy of anger for your weapons.’
This interested me. ‘Honourable Teacher, how can I do that?’
‘I will show you after the others have left. For now, let me show you and the others the weaker places between the feet and the waist.’
We rejoined the group.
‘Even if armoured, your opponent will still have weak areas.’ Akio took his bokken, then pointed to and named the parts: ankles, wrists, back of knees, kneecaps, kidneys and, of course, phallus and testes. ‘Remember, fingers are not good targets. I have fought and won with broken fingers.’
Fighting with broken fingers. I could not imagine it.
That evening he showed me how he used anger. First he smiled at me and lifted his hands and shoulders. ‘See? I am relaxed and peaceful.’ He threw a spear. It landed straight in the target.
Next he turned to me, gnashed his teeth, made an animal sound and brought his eyebrows between his eyes. ‘I . . . am . . . angry.’ He threw another spear. It landed in the target, ripping it and continuing through it. ‘I was still angry, but I took that power and put that force into my arm.’
He made me do that.
I pretended that the target bore Uba’s face.
My problem with anger was resolved. Almost.
Sword work frustrated me. Akio and I practised each of the weak body parts. He wore extra-heavy armour on all those places. ‘Do not laugh at me. I know I look a little – odd.’
‘You remind me of Proprietor Chiba.’ I could barely say the words.
He looked down at his triple padded stomach, legs, feet and groin. ‘Am I that big?’
‘Almost.’
He guffawed.
He and I exchanged blows daily, month after month, until he saw I could at least hold my own within my group.
After that, I surprised a few of the older boys too.
My family – I could hardly remember their faces. I tried to find them in my mind. Often I could not. I awakened from dreams crying, throat tight, hands in fists pounding the futon. Tashiko held me until I stopped weeping. ‘Yes.’ She rubbed my head like Fourth Daughter had. ‘Yes, I know. I know.’
Autumn came again, and a few samurai returned from a pilgrimage to the Takao temple, famous for its red maple trees. Each evening I listened to their poetry and clapped. The armoured men had taught me about poetry. I understood the verses and read many of them, yet I could not write the characters properly, no matter how I tried.
Master Isamu played the biwa while the samurai recited. In the brisk autumn breezes words fluttered like butterflies drifting across my eyes:
Red carp in the pond
Slowly hidden by red leaves
Fish search the waters
The maple tree sheds its leaves
Bent branches over red pond
Master Isamu played and wept. Several others cried too. They held their long sleeves to their eyes and blotted them from time to time.
‘Why are you crying?’ I asked, because I had never seen these men cry.
‘For the beauty,’ Master Isamu answered. ‘Yet there is another reason. While the Gods were being born, so long ago, She-Who-Invites, one of the first Goddesses, gave birth to the God of Fire. Unfortunately, She-Who-Invites was burned greatly. She receded slowly and became no more. He-Who-Invites mourned Her with outrage. He wailed, and his tears created the God who lives at the foot of Mount Fragrant’s slopes. That is why it is good, especially for samurai, to shed tears in emulation of the Gods.’
I thought about this. It was good for samurai to cry at beauty, but not at pain.
The crying at beauty but not at pain confused me. However, Akio spoke to me often of the Eightfold Noble Path: right view, thinking, mindfulness, speech, action, diligence, concentration and livelihood. He emphasised Right Action to me. Master Isamu taught us more about the Way: loyalty, justice, courage, politeness, truthfulness, honour and benevolence. Loyalty was the most important. Benevolence meant I could not kick, hit or grab at any of the boys, no matter how much they teased me, especially Uba.
Tashiko did not like Uba. I could not talk about him without her sulking for the rest of the day. I found that confusing too.
Once Proprietor Chiba came to the fields himself, which was unusual, with a smile on his face, also unusual. He only smiled if he wanted something, was eating, or when he thrashed me and Tashiko. Master Isamu reminded me, in the middle of an archery lesson, ‘The bow teaches the archer.’ I remembered this, because Proprietor Chiba laughed and talked with Master Isamu.
‘The Tax Collector has just left. I told him that because we are of the Taira Clan, we need not pay any tax at this time. But I encouraged him to watch my samurai practise.’ Proprietor Chiba laughed loudly, his hands on his hips. ‘With you we have no need to pay, have we? No need to travel to Heian-kyō, heh? N
o need to protest at the Grand Council?’
Master Isamu smiled at Proprietor Chiba.
‘There are many advantages to having warriors around me.’ Proprietor Chiba gave a wide smile, then laughed again. I did not recall ever seeing him so happy, except at Tashiko’s shrieks.
I did not realise until years later that I had witnessed his downfall.
BOOK 4
I. Flaw
Tashiko hunched over me in Lesser House, as breathless as if she had just finished the Lion Dance, and arranged her irritated face into a neutral expression. ‘Again. I show. You copy.’
This time would be successful. I studied and held my breath. I thought of needlecraft and that last day with my family. Fourth Daughter had demonstrated for me many times, but I could never make my stitches look like hers.
But I would not fail at this: I needed to write the poems I composed. The samurai expected it of me, and Proprietor Chiba had ordered me to learn, with threats of the usual punishments.
Tashiko leaned over my shoulder, making the character. ‘See?’ she said. ‘Now you.’
I took the brush. Dipped it in ink. Wiped the brush and checked the moisture. Ready.
Silent prayer to the Goddess of Mercy, to the God of the Brush, if there was one. Akio had told me that samurai were skilful poets and musicians, as well as expert fighters.
Tashiko adjusted my fingers around the brush and pushed my wrist into position.
‘Down, up and out,’ she murmured, for the fifteenth or fiftieth time.
Down.
Up.
Out.
A mess. Almost a whole month on one character, and it looked as if a bird had written it with one claw.
Red in the face, Tashiko blew moist strands of hair from her eyes. ‘I do not believe it!’ She stood up and tramped away. ‘I taught three other girls. You are the worst!’
‘Three? Did they all do well?’
‘Yes. All. Are you not even trying?’
‘I am! I am!’ I put my hands over my face. A diversion might help. ‘How long have you been here with Proprietor Chiba?’
‘Five years.’
‘A long time. Were you alone?’
‘No. Two others.’
This was not about writing, and her face was returning to its normal nut brown. ‘You all danced?’
She nodded, with that sad shake of her shoulders. ‘Sold, too. All were.’
‘How old were you when you were sold?’ I asked.
‘Five.’
‘I’m sure you know I was over six. My family has new land because of me.’ I sat up straighter.
Tashiko’s lips formed a weak smile. ‘A new ox. My family can plough fields faster . . . and by now the ox has bred enough for my older sister’s dowry.’
‘How many older sisters?’
‘Five. The two eldest are married. Two went to convent, but the convent would not take another without dowry.’
‘Why not?’
‘Too greedy?’
‘How did you get here?’
‘Prettiest one when the priest visited.’
That priest again. So, he finds girls. ‘Daigoro no Goro?’
Nodding, Tashiko wrapped her arms around herself, although it was near midsummer and hot.
‘Any brothers?’ I asked.
‘Five.’
‘Only four, although since I have been here more than two years there may be another more. I think my mother was with child when I . . . left. She said she did not show until her last month. My married sisters are, were, the same way when I last saw them.’ I moved the brush in my hand. A mistake.
‘Kozaishō, others have learned.’ She sighed, looking at my hand. ‘You do not seem to be able to write. You read well. Let us concentrate on the reading.’
I agreed, only too happy to give up the gruelling work.
From that day, Lesser House had name characters pasted on the table, the floor, the wall, the futon, the brazier and everything else. Akio and Master Isamu gave me words on pieces of paper. Tashiko attached them to the object they named, if possible.
Much later, I regretted that she had stopped teaching me.
II. Succession
Lesser House had been my home for more than two years. Proprietor Chiba still beat us, no longer for our performances but when his feet hurt or he had not slept well. The priest, Goro, visited often and followed me throughout the morning or during the Hours of the Sheep or Monkey. His visits brought reminders of my last day with my family. Were they doing well with my gift, the land? When I thought of them, my stomach churned and my voice cracked. The island in the pond supplied me with a shelter from others to mourn.
My riding improved. Even with my bow and the naginata, a spear with a curved blade at the end, I sometimes matched the boys in my age group. Uba and I competed in everything. I mastered move-in-towards-an-opponent and slide-out-of-range. I rehearsed the readiness stances with my bokken and worked on the introductory movements. Not perfection, but Akio gave me his ‘satisfaction’ grimace. An achievement.
One winter morning I woke up alone. There was no Tashiko, no fire, little water in my jug and no clothes laid out for me. I shivered in my futon and waited. She did not come. Looking around Lesser House, I saw her clothes were gone and so were her dolls. Tashiko had discarded me, I thought. I had been abandoned once more. I liked Tashiko so much – she was the nearest to my family I had had since my sale. Loneliness choked me. Tashiko said the Lotus Sutra could remove sadness and darkness. I sang some aloud, but still missed her. Allowing myself the luxury of tears, I hugged my favourite doll and curled into the quilt against the icy air.
Abandoned again
Inner winter icicles
Dripping through my eyes
Wild ducks call among the reeds
Their cry so sad I cannot move
After a time, I put down my doll and folded the futon. Saying more of the Lotus Sutra, I dressed myself in my warmest clothes and a quilted jacket. I did my and Tashiko’s tasks, swept Lesser House’s floor and brought in wood for the brazier. I carried buckets to the well.
Proprietor Chiba arrived, wearing his toothy grin. I wrestled with the water, which was difficult since it was frozen on top. ‘Good.’ He slapped the top of my head. ‘You are already doing her tasks. Tashiko has gone.’
‘Why?’ I asked formally, my eyes lowered. ‘She attended to me well. She lit the fire, arranged our clothes and cleaned Lesser House.’
Proprietor Chiba’s eyes were distant. ‘It is my business. I have sent her away. It has nothing to do with you. I order you never to speak of this, or her, again. To anyone.’
With Tashiko gone, my life at Proprietor Chiba’s was transformed into emptiness. I did my utmost to manage. With all her tasks and mine, I hoped I would have less time to miss her. The extra household tasks did not help, but my work with the samurai distracted me a little.
Proprietor Chiba no longer brought me dolls or presents. Only after I had danced and sung for as long as he wanted could I beg for a story. I craved a tale to transport me to a fantasy world.
One evening he said, ‘A new girl is coming. I want you to take care of her, as Tashiko did you.’ She was to share Lesser House with me. I had to wash and groom her, teach her the dances and makeup.
Chills shook my body so hard I almost tumbled on to the floor. Suddenly I knew why Tashiko had had tears on her face as she had dried me at night. At that instant I wanted never to dance for Proprietor Chiba again. He had used Tashiko. He had used me. He was using me.
What had Tashiko done to displease him? Eventually I might be sent away – to wherever girls who offended him were sent. Later, however, on reflection, I realised I might see Tashiko again. That was the only spark in a large heap of damp firewood.
That evening, a bewildered little girl arrived. She was perhaps no more than five or six, younger than I was when I had come. She brought with her my same round face. A lifetime for me had been only a little more than two years.
I knew her fear, loneliness and loss, a budding flower plucked before the sun had warmed and opened it naturally. Yet I taught my replacement everything I had learned.
I did it for my family’s honour. I remained hopeful that I might not be sent away, although Goro visited the shōen more often. His visits put a cold stone into my stomach, especially when he gazed at me dancing. The only word he said was ‘Beautiful. Beautiful.’
A giggling girl, Emi must have been born during a famine because it took her days to learn a simple dance I had mastered in less than one. Songs required even more time, but she had a laugh that spread to others and a silvery singing voice.
I remembered how my skin had reddened in my first days and scrubbed Emi with care in the bathhouse. I wept while I was washing her, remembering Tashiko and her tears. Unlike Tashiko, I was always patient and gentle, as she had been after our truce. Emi relished dressing up and makeup, as I did, and we shared some happy moments.
With no possibility of her learning the Lotus Sutra, I taught Emi to say, ‘Namu Amida Butsu, honour to the Amida Buddha.’ She would need it for her salvation. Eventually she would be alone and have to do everything for herself. She had a good heart, always tried her best and was aware of her slowness.
How sad.
III. The Gods of Directions’ Directive
In my third autumn at the shōen, the Gods of Directions ordered Proprietor Chiba to stay away for two days. He left orders for me to teach Emi another dance for the Chrysanthemum Festival. Memories of Tashiko pressed on me, especially in Lesser House at night, and I often played the biwa out on our watadono.
In her free time Emi always bounded into the gardens, especially at harvest time when she could nibble all she wanted. I made a timetable for myself of our household tasks, dance rehearsals, the practice field – and then a visit to the lake. The geese, cranes and shrikes arrived with the dragonflies and charmed me.
The Pillow Book of the Flower Samurai Page 7
